There is nothing worse than a “dear readers, I’m sorry for my silence…” post, because it’s at once presumptuous and kind of smug (you assume you have readers lying in wait for your next word), but it’s also kind of true, because you wouldn’t have a blog if you didn’t hope to have readers. Or even, you know, a reader.

Dear reader(s), I’m sorry for my silence. I have nothing to say. This is would indicate that my mind is empty, but my mind has been far from empty. It’s filled – somehow, it seems filled to breaking point. In that kind of chaos, writing seems to require more effort than I can scrounge up – particularly disheartening since I’ve been informed that I apparently write for a living. Except the writing-for-a-living thing that I mainly do is really the vilest form of writing known to man: copywriting.

I am a bit alarmed. Writing is how I make sense of the world. I am able to make sense of nothing. I am able to retweet and reblog on Tumblr and click ‘like’ on various posts but I can’t seem to write.